To Shoot a Brother
by rusticautumn
Summary: I lay no blame, I see no fault, and I have nothing to give but trust and love... "'D'Artagnan' Aramis called to his friend with concern as he made to make another step, but the Gascon lifted the pistol higher, training the weapon directly at his friend." (Readers should be aware that this is a story about brotherhood and not betrayal... despite what first impressions might be...)
1. Chapter 1

**AN/ So we're off on another Musketeer's adventure. The story's almost complete. I've got the last 2 chapters left to write, but got excited and wanted to start posting, so here we go. I'm planning on updating every 1-3 days. My timetable/ diary is all over the place right now, but as most of the draft material is done, I should manage okay. I hope you enjoy it!**

 ** _Disclaimer: I do not own BBC's The Musketeers_**

* * *

His ears were ringing. It was an unpleasant and persistent sensation that continued to make its presence known until Aramis saw no other choice but to answer the call of the irritable buzzing noise. His eyes fluttered open and he immediately slammed them shut as the bright light stabbed through his brain which, he now became very aware, was throbbing incessantly.

A barely audible groan emanated from his lips before Aramis plucked up the courage for a second bout.

This time, he opened his eyes much more slowly, and although the thudding headache that echoed inside his skull remained insistently loud, he was able to keep them open. He lay still for a moment and took stock of the rest of his body and limbs. He chest felt sore and he suspected, as he shifted slightly, that there may be some bruised ribs on his left side, but he couldn't make out any other severe hurts or pains besides this and so, cautiously, he pushing himself up into a sitting position.

Once semi upright, and with one hand pressed against his sore ribs, which had protested loudly at his movements, Aramis looked about him worriedly. His mind had drawn a blank beyond the small hours of the morning just passed, and the considerable alcohol consumed, and so Aramis searched around, trying to figure out his location and, of even more concern, trying to recall what it was that had happened to him. The narrow path he was on, appeared unworn and grassy, and so, Aramis surmised, was one less used by travellers. However, besides this observation, Aramis could find no clue as to his exact location, or any indication of how he'd come to be there.

Shifting his hand to gain balance before standing, he felt his fingers brush against something, and looked down to find his pistol lying by his side. Lifting it, the weight indicated that it wasn't loaded, and as he brought the weapon nearer he could smell the recent discharge of the pistol.

Aramis was now determined to move. The combination of his fuzzy head, sore ribs, and his recently discharged weapon being an indication that danger was most likely close by. He managed to stand on shaky legs, although, as he completed his move, he became dismally aware that his sword was missing from his scabbard.

He searched about him, but could not detect his sword on the ground as he had done with his gun. He did, however, find a blood trail. Had his pistol hit his mark?

He managed to draw his main gauche, which was still attached to his belt, and followed the blood trail with slow cautious movements. He didn't have to travel far before he came across the source of the blood.

The sight before him stopped him in his tracks and he gaped at the scene, unable to make sense of it.

"Don't come any closer," said a wary voice. The young man was slumped against a tree, his upper right chest bleeding freely. His face was drained of almost all its colour and his voice was breathy and wheezing. Aramis' sword lay in the grass beside him. In his quivering hand was a pistol.

"D'Artagnan?" Aramis called to his friend with concern as he made to make another step, but the Gascon lifted the pistol higher, training the weapon directly at his friend.


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you for everyone's kind reviews, follows and faves. I hope I don't disappoint. And now... the plot unfolds...**

Disclaimer: I do not own BBC'S The Musketeers

* * *

"Don't come closer," D'Artagnan repeated.

Aramis glanced at the weapon in the Gascon's hand, and then ran his inquisitive gaze over d'Artagnan's body, taking stock of the severity of the injury to his chest.

"D'Artagnan, you're seriously injured," Aramis called to his brother, pleading with him. "Please, you need to lower the weapon. I need to stop the bleeding."

D'Artagnan looked hesitant, but something like a look of hope fluttered in his eyes and the weapon dipped a little.

"Please d'Artagnan," Aramis continued. "Whatever has happened, we can rectify it, but I need to check on your wound."

"Aramis?"

"Yeah, it's me." Aramis hesitantly took a step forward. When d'Artagnan didn't make any overtly defensive move, Aramis began to move even closer.

Finally reaching him, Aramis gently prised the gun out of d'Artagnan's hands and set it beside him. He didn't like to linger on the open road when there were still too many unknown variables, but he had no other option with d'Artagnan bleeding as heavily as he was. In front of him, d'Artagnan was fading fast, his eyes fluttering a little as he struggled to breathe. Whatever damage had been done to his chest had clearly had some sort of impact on the lad's lungs.

"You're okay," d'Artagnan said softly, and Aramis thought he could detect a sound of desperation on the man's lips.

"I'm fine d'Artagnan," he said. "It's you I'm worried about."

D'Artagnan didn't say anything as Aramis inspected the wound. It looked like he had taken a shot to his upper chest, and it appeared that the ball had caught his lung before it had exited out of d'Artagnan's back. He tutted slightly, not having any real supplies to hand, and so being rather stuck about what to do other than to apply pressure and wait for help to arrive.

If help were to ever arrive. He still had no idea of what had happened, or where they were.

He hastily pulled his scarf free from his belt and pressed it firmly against d'Artagnan's open wounds. A pained gasp emitted from d'Artagnan's mouth and, in the back of his mind, Aramis worried at the fact that there was clearly enough air in his brother's lungs to cry out louder.

"I'm sorry, my friend," said Aramis as d'Artagnan heaved and gasped from the pressure he was putting on the wound.

"S'okay."

Aramis looked back behind him, seeing the blood trail but nothing else. He took stock of his own state of dress (he was armed, and clothed, but had no doublet with him, and his hat was conspicuously absent), and then at d'Artagnan, who looked dressed as if he would when setting out for a mission.

"What happened?" Aramis finally asked. "Where are we?"

"You don't remember?"

"I think I knocked my head," Aramis said. "Or someone knocked it for me. I can't recall…"

D'Artagnan shifted slightly under Aramis' hold, and the medic watched as h frowned, as if considering what to say.

"D'Artagnan?" Aramis wheedled his brother.

"We're just outside of Paris," d'Artagnan said. "I suspect the others will find us soon."

"Just outside of Paris?"

D'Artagnan's eyes slid shut momentarily as he nodded his assent.

"You walked… How did you walk his far bleeding like this?" Aramis asked.

And then he paused, truly taking in the implications of the Gascon's attempts at travel.

"D'Artagnan? Why did you… why did you walk away from _me_?"

D'Artagnan flinched and turned his head away.

"D'Artagnan?" Aramis was all but begging now. "D'Artagnan? You had my sword. You wouldn't let me near you… oh god… mon dieu… my pistol… I'd fired my…"

"T'wasn't yo—" d'Artagnan mumbled.

"Who was it then?" Aramis was frantic. "Stay awake d'Artagnan. You can't go to sleep."

D'Artagnan's chest fluttered as his eyes flickered back open from when they had shut.

"You di'n-t kno- what y'were do'in," d'Artagnan said softly. The words were meant to be reassuring, but spoken from d'Artagnan's blue-tinged lips they were damning to the medic.

"I shot you," Aramis whispered hollowly. "No, no, no, no… Why would I shoot you?"

"S'not y'ur fault," d'Artagnan wheezed.

"D'Artagnan…" but Aramis could think of no words as his brother lay dying by his own hands.


	3. Chapter 3

**Here's some of that backstory you've been waiting for... though not all of it... ;)**

Disclaimer: I do not own the BBC's The Musketeers

* * *

Earlier that same day, d'Artagnan had been sitting at breakfast with Athos and Porthos awaiting the medic's arrival. At first, Aramis' absence hadn't been particularly noticeable, but as the hour ticked on and the time for morning muster approached, Porthos began to send more fugitive glances towards the entrance of the garrison.

"Perhaps he's in his rooms?' d'Artagnan suggested, as the courtyard got busier.

"I checked on my way past," said Porthos, with a shake of his head.

"Then perhaps at another's rooms?" Athos added coyly, with something of a knowing smirk on his face.

Porthos sighed.

"That man is going to get a rollickin' from the Captain."

"I doubt that would concern our friend," Athos said with a slightly amused expression on his face. "He can basically recite the dressing down verbatim."

"That many times?" d'Artagnan asked.

Athos didn't answer, but the upward twist of his lips gave d'Artagnan all the confirmation he needed.

Treville arrived at that moment, and the three men rose to stand with the rest of the men, and all the while Porthos was muttering under his breath.

If Treville noted Aramis' absence, he didn't make comment on it, and he set Porthos, Athos, and d'Artagnan to duties and training in the garrison for the day. D'Artagnan set to work drilling some of the newer recruits in their sword-craft, all the while passing the odd look towards the garrison entrance and, even more so, watching out for Porthos, who kept finding excuses to leave the armoury to check the courtyard for his absent friend.

As midday arrived, d'Artagnan called a halt to the training, looking towards the entranceway anxiously for Aramis, who had yet to make an appearance. By now, both his brother and he were getting worried. Treville came down the stairs and whistled to Athos, who was sitting outside the armoury and sharpening the weapons. He walked towards the Captain with an expectant look on his face.

"You want us to go looking?" he asked.

"Find him," Treville nodded. "And let's hope he's simply forgotten to rise with the morning sun in whichever bed he took for his last night."

"Aye," Athos agreed, jerking his head a little to indicate that Porthos should leave his post.

"We can go?" Porthos asked.

"Let's bring our boy home," Athos confirmed.

As the clock struck twelve, the three brothers set out in search of their fellow friend.

"So where to first?" d'Artagnan asked.

"Well, I last saw him at the _Goose & Hare_ so let's start from there shall we?" Porthos said.

The three of them wandered towards the tavern in question and ducked inside. During the day, the place was relatively quiet. A few regulars were still about but otherwise there was only the bar keeper, who was wiping down the sides and restocking his shelves.

"Good afternoon, Monsieur," Athos approached the bar.

"What can I get you fellas?" the bar keeper asked.

"Actually, we're looking for someone," Athos began.

"My friend, who I left sitting at the corner table last night," Porthos added in.

"Oh, yes, I remember," the bar keeper nodded. "He left maybe an hour after you did. Got into a scuffle of some sort with the another fella. They took it outside, so I didn't get involved."

Porthos frowned at the response.

"My nights are busy," the bar keeper interceded. "If I got involved in every fight that goes on _outside_ my doors, I'd never have any time to run my bar."

Porthos still looked disappointed by the answer, but didn't say anything else. He pushed himself off the edge of the bar and headed back towards the door.

"I saw your friend brush off the other guy," one of the regulars interrupted their exit from where he sat near the door. "I didn't catch what he said, but when he departed he headed off towards the edge."

The _Goose & Hare_ was near the edge of Paris, so if Aramis had turned to his left as he exited the tavern, he'd have been walking towards the city limits.

"Thank you," Athos nodded to the man and dropped a coin for a drink down on his table for the information given.

Once outside, the three men stood and checked their surroundings, before moving off.

When they reached another tavern, Porthos made to stoop inside, but d'Artagnan hesitated.

"How about I go ahead towards the city limit?" d'Artagnan suggested. "We might track him down faster if we take different routes."

"You think he left the city?" Porthos asked doubtingly.

"Probably not," d'Artagnan responded. "But if we drop into every tavern we might not get the answers we want for some time. I'm merely suggesting that I jump ahead a little, and I might rumble up some answers. Splitting up would make the search faster."

"He's not wrong," Athos agreed. "How about you and I check alternate taverns, and d'Artagnan can check the road. We'll see what we can drum up."

Porthos grumbled his assent and ducked through the low sitting door arch while the others set off ahead of him.

The next tavern owner had not seen his friend, but the one after recognised the description. Apparently Aramis had been accosted once more by the unknown man the first bar keeper had spoken of. There had been some sort of altercation between the two which had resulted in Aramis running out and leaving both a beautiful woman and his unpaid tab behind. Porthos begrudgingly paid the money his friend owed and then set back out in search for him with worry worming away in the pit of his stomach.

A short while later he reconvened with Athos, who had found only a report that a man fitting Aramis' description had run through this way in the early hours of the morning. Porthos worriedly told Athos about the man that appeared to be accosting their absent friend, and then they both set off to follow the Gascon's trail, in the hopes that he had more luck in locating Aramis.

As they walked towards the city limit Porthos couldn't help but notice how Athos' hand had dropped down to rest on the hilt of his sword. And Porthos, himself, had loosened his main gauche in his belt.


	4. Chapter 4

**AN/ I should apologise... but you guys signed up for whump, so I'm not too sorry for what's about to follow. Thank you for all your reviews so far, you're all very eager to know what happened, but I'm afraid all is not quite yet to be revealed... lots of energy (and emotions) in this story, but answers take a while to come out of the woodwork.**

 **Also, I finished the last chapter (which turned into two chapters as I was writing it), so will do my best to upload daily now. Occasionally my busy schedule might mean I can't get to my computer, but we should be good to go until the end now :) Incidentally, I had meant to post this earlier today, but there was a power outage, so had no access.**

 **And so, without further ado...**

Disclaimer: I do not own BBC's The Musketeers

* * *

Aramis was practically catatonic when Athos and Porthos found them shortly after. His hands were still pressed against d'Artagnan's wounds, and they were slick with blood. The same blood was splattered all the way up Aramis' arms, on his chest and face. The same blood that was pouring out of d'Artagnan's body.

Athos and Porthos broke out into a run upon seeing the tableau set out before them.

"Aramis?" Porthos called to his friend as he came to settle beside the non-cognizant Spaniard. He gripped his friend's shoulder while exchanging a concerned glance with Athos whose eyes had been fixed on the deathly pale face of d'Artagnan. With a nod shared between the two of them, Porthos pulled a scarily compliant and numb Aramis away from the d'Artagnan while Athos took to applying stead pressure to the wounds and performing his own examination of the Gascon.

"How bad?' Porthos asked fearfully, his voice cracking slightly.

"I think the bleeding's slowed down, but that might because there's not much left," Athos voiced his concerns. "His breathing's affected."

Porthos clutched Aramis' still body as Athos tried to gage the extent of d'Artagnan's injury.

"We need to get him a Doctor," Athos said. "Can Aramis walk? We'll need the both of us to get him back to the Garrison without him bleeding out completely."

Porthos turned to Aramis and took in the sight of his friend. Aramis was almost as pale as d'Artagnan though there was no real sign of any visible injury. His eyes were glazed over and he was completely compliant to Porthos' manhandling.

"Aramis?" Porthos called to his friend, resting a large hand on his brother's cheek to try and get his attention. Aramis didn't so much a flinch at the move, nor shift his gaze from where he was staring resolutely ahead. Porthos frowned and felt concern ripple through him. Fear for both his brothers surfaced: d'Artagnan's potentially fatal injury was self-evident in the blood that coated both Aramis and himself, but Aramis was completely lost. And Porthos couldn't make heads or tails of it.

To the side of the pair, Porthos heard d'Artagnan's already floundering breathing hitch slightly.

"Alright," Porthos sighed. "Let's give this a try."

Porthos slowly stood and pulled Aramis up with him. Once he was certain that Aramis would remain standing on his own, Porthos turned to bundle the Gascon into his arms.

"Come 'ere whelp," he whispered soothingly as he brought d'Artagnan's limp body lose to his chest. Athos remained by their side, maintaining his grip on either side of d'Artagnan's shoulder.

"Press the wound on his back against my chest to free one of your hands," Porthos instructed. Athos saw Porthos' intention and followed through, forcing d'Artagnan's wound back against Porthos while still maintaining pressure through his hold on the front of the wound. He then reached out and grasped Aramis with his spare hand, and pulled the catatonic musketeer towards them. Aramis moved obligingly, but unseeingly.

Athos exchanged another wary and very worried look with Porthos before the four of them began to move slowly towards Paris.

/\/\/\/\/\

Porthos heard shouts as they neared the garrison, and was relieved to see the guards on duty running to meet them as the men came closer.

"What happened?" Henri asked in alarm as he took in the sight before him. D'Artagnan, held against Porthos' chest, was deathly pale and clearly struggling to breathe. Athos had his hand pressed against the Gascon's chest, and red blood spilled out amongst the elder man's fingers and drenched both the Gascon's and Porthos' clothing. To the side, Aramis stood with a vacant look in his eyes and Athos' other hand gripped the Spaniard's arm in a vice-grip.

"The whelp was shot," Porthos explained as they entered the garrison. "Not sure how it happened. Somethin's up with Aramis."

"Take him will you?" Athos asked the other guard, Etienne, passing Aramis to the man so that he could maintain a better grip on the bleeding Gascon.

"Pierre!" Henri called to one of the newer recruits. "Go fetch Doctor Fabien at once. Tell him he is to get here with the utmost urgency."

Pierre took one glance at the musketeers before him and bolted out of the garrison in search of the doctor.

"Let's get them to the infirmary," Athos said, and the group trooped into the barracks. Etienne guided Aramis, while Henri went to find Treville.

When they reached the infirmary Porthos laid his charge down on one of beds and pulled him into a semi-upright position so that both Athos and he could maintain a firm grasp on the bleeding wound. D'Artagnan's face was pinched with pain, even though he remained unconscious, and his breath came out in short, wheezing spurts.

"Doc Fabien had better get here double-quick," Porthos muttered anxiously as he glanced across to Aramis. Normally, their brother and medic would be centre stage by now, taking charge, barking orders and looking after his family. Instead, he sat where Etienne had deposited him on the bed opposite the centre runway of the room. His face was completely lax, his eyes failed to track movement.

"What's wrong with him?" Athos asked, though not to anyone in particular. "Did he hit his head?"

"I don't see any wound," Etienne said, as mystified as the others as to Aramis' current state. "He looks… He looks like he did when…"

"Savoy," Porthos muttered bitterly.

"Yeah," Etienne agreed with a lame shrug of his shoulders. He was about Porthos' age and was relatively close to the Inseparables, merely for having spent so much time in their company about the garrison and on occasional missions. He'd been on hand during the fallout of Savoy. In fact, his best friend had been one of the soldier's counted amongst the dead.

"Stay?" Porthos asked.

"I'll watch him," Etienne assured. "You watch the pup."

Athos caught Etienne's eye and nodded his thanks, just as Treville arrived with Henri at his back.

"You found him," Treville stated, not a question.

"Aye," Porthos acknowledged. "But something went wrong along the way."

Treville looked first at d'Artagnan, bleeding out and struggling to breathe, and then at Aramis, who might as well have not been there.

"Do we know what happened?" Treville asked.

"Only that the whelp was shot," Porthos sighed. "We found him on the ground with Aramis applying pressure, but 'mis wasn't with us even then."

"No one else in sight?"

"I think we'd have said so, Captain," Athos said pointedly.

"Of course," Treville acknowledged. "I'm merely trying to—"

Treville's words were interrupted by the hacking cough coming from d'Artagnan whose eyes slipped open, the pain finally dragging him back to consciousness, as blood sprayed from his mouth in a transfixing, terrifying display.

* * *

 **AN/ I'm sorry/ not sorry for the cliffhanger...**


	5. Chapter 5

**AN/ So this comes with a prelim in which I remind you all that I have absolutely no medical training whatsoever, so apologies for any inaccuracies.**

Disclaimer: I do not own BBC's _The Musketeers_.

* * *

Porthos swore colourfully as a fine cloud of blood peppered the air before him.

"Damn you Aramis! Wake up!" he roared to his friend. Aramis jolted slightly where he sat and he turned in their direction a little, but his eyes were still unseeing.

Athos glanced worriedly at each of his brothers, feeling completely helpless as his little brother's blood slipped past his fingers, no matter how hard he gripped at the hole in d'Artagnan's back. D'Artagnan seemed to be half aware as he struggled to breathe, but it last only moments as another cough burst from his lips and he slipped back under into oblivious sleep.

At this moment the door to the infirmary was opened by a breathless Pierre, who had Doctor Fabien in tow.

"Finally!" muttered Porthos in relief.

"What have we got?" Fabien asked as he approached the bed that the three men were crowded on and around.

"He was shot," Athos explained. "The exit wound is in the back, but the wound's affecting his breathing. He's just coughed up blood."

"Alright," Fabien visually assessed his patient and rolled up his sleeves. "Get him on his side. Aramis? You taking part in this?"

There was a silence that was not filled as anyone had expected or hoped.

"'Mis ain't with us right now," Porthos said gruffly. "He's…" But here Porthos stopped, for he was unsure as to how to explain his brother's absence.

"We'll get to him next then," Fabien said as he glanced in Aramis' direction and caught the vacant expression on the normally animated medic's face. "For now, I need you to keep pressure on the wounds while I cut the shirt open and get a better look."

Fabien made quick work of the bloody and ruined shirt and then pressed his ear against the lad's chest, listening to the boy's breathing and heartbeat.

"It looks like the bullet caught the lung. The blood is seeping into his lungs," the Doctor said.

"It's collapsed?" Athos asked worriedly.

"Not quite," Fabien replied. "But we need to get rid of the blood, and stitch it up inside. It will be unpleasant." A frown plagued Fabien's face as he set to getting his equipment ready.

"What's wrong?" Porthos asked him.

"Set the fire going… hot. And get some boiling water too," Fabien instructed Henri, who was quick to follow the order.

"Doctor," Porthos addressed Fabien again. "What is wrong?"

Fabien looked at Porthos with a look of sorrow, an expression Porthos had seen many times before on the face of someone about to tell another of a loved one's passing.

"You can help 'im, right?" Porthos asked.

"Please," Athos beseeched Fabien, also having garnered the meaning behind the Doctor's expression.

"I can't promise you that," Fabien said with a sigh. "I'm sorry. I wish I could. This kind of surgery is dangerous. It will hurt him, a lot, and there is almost always an infection. I place my tools in boiling water, and have even tried cauterisation, but playing around that deep inside of him will undoubtedly cause trouble."

Fabien paused and looked both men in the eye, before speaking with the utmost sincerity and honesty. "I can stop the bleeding, but I can make no promises as to whether he'll survive his recovery."

"Do what you must," Athos finally said after a long silence had settled in the room. "We'll get him through the rest."

Fabien nodded and turned to ready his tools in the boiling water that Henri had prepared.

"Hold him tight," Fabien instructed.

What followed could only be described by Athos as the most frightening and harrowing few minutes of his life. Compared to this, an outnumbered battle of five against one was much more pleasant an idea.

First, Fabien had delved through the hole, sealing up the wound inside, and then sealed the two holes that had been driven into d'Artagnan's chest and back. Next, he cut an incision into d'Artagnan's side and inserted a piece of tubing through it until dark, clotted blood leaked out from the Gascon's lung and onto the floor next to the bed, splashing Porthos' boots. Finally, when the lung had cleared and the wheezing had somewhat subsided, Fabien removed the tube and stitched the wound closed completely.

Fabien had been methodical, clinical, and as gentle as possible, but from the moment he pushed his fingers through the chest wound in search of the hole in the man's lung, d'Artagnan had come back awake and released an unholy scream that Athos had thought impossible given the struggle the whelp was having in breathing. D'Artagnan had bucked under Athos' and Porthos' grip, cried and screamed, and when he finally collapsed into unconsciousness, he had rudely and loudly awakened with a strangled yell when Fabien had inserted the tubing into his side.

By the end of the ordeal, d'Artagnan was a quaking, shivering mess. Sweat coated his skin, his body burned with the beginnings of a shock-induced fever, and tears stained his reddened cheeks.

As the Gascon's body collapsed into itself in unconscious exhaustion, Athos ran his hands through the lad's hair soothingly while Fabien dressed the wound, and then all three men settled him onto a clean bed next to the one that Fabien had operated on, and propped him on his side, to take the stress off his wound and ease his breathing.

"The next few hours will be critical," Fabien warned. "Keep him cool and check the wounds regularly. I'll make sure you have drafts on hand to tackle the fever. If he struggles with his breathing, elevate his upper body as best as possible between the two of you."

"I won't leave his side until he's recovered," Athos said with a steadfastness that Fabien approved of wholeheartedly. The musketeer's eyes were veiled in shadow, and it was clear that he was shaken by the events that had just passed.

Porthos rested a hand on d'Artagnan's arm and squeezed it gently as he nodded his thanks towards the doctor before his gaze shifted to look at Aramis.

Aramis sat where Etienne had deposited him when they'd first arrived. Etienne still sat beside him, and Treville stood against the wall, having hovered while Fabien had worked, and then moved out of the doctor's way now that the most immediate danger had passed.

Throughout the whole experience, Aramis hadn't stirred once.


	6. Chapter 6

**AN/ And now to Aramis...**

Disclaimer: I do not own the BBC's The Musketeers.

* * *

"Let's take a look at Aramis now, shall we?" Fabien announced, crossing the room smartly and sitting opposite his second patient.

Aramis didn't look up when Fabien approached and the Doctor was worried that the musketeer and proficient medic had sat so silently and still while his brother was injured and in need of help.

"Aramis?" Fabien called out to the man. Aramis didn't stir.

"Come on Aramis," Porthos practically begged from the end of the bed. Fabien glanced up at the large musketeer and then back to the Spaniard.

"I'm just going to lift your head Aramis," Fabien said aloud, not wishing to startle his new patient. Gently he tilted the man's chin upwards and examined the man's eyes properly. He clicked his fingers sharply by Aramis' ear, and waved his hand before his face. He then examined the musketeer's head for any kind of wound and, finding none, then tugged sharply on a lock of his hair.

No response.

Fabien stared almost incomprehensibly at his charge.

"What's wrong with 'im Doc?" Porthos asked anxiously.

"It looks to be a very severe form of shock," Fabien theorised. "Whatever occurred was so terrifying, upsetting, or dare I say traumatising that he's locked his mind away. He's escaped into his head, and isn't taking anything else in. I wouldn't be surprised if he can't even hear me speak now, and I'm sitting right in front of him."

"What can we do?" Treville asked, eyeing his musketeers with a worried expression. In all honesty he was more concerned about Aramis than he was d'Artagnan at his particular moment: as grievous as d'Artagnan's wounds were, he knew how to deal with them… he could see them. Whatever was going on in Aramis' head was a whole other story.

"Well, he can't stay like this forever," Fabien sighed. "I can try some smelling salts, but past that, I have no idea how else I might deal with this. I've never seen a case of shock this severe before. At least not off the battlefield."

"So… smelling salts then?" Porthos asked.

"It's our best course of action," Fabien agreed. He rose to collect a vial from his bag, and then returned. "Sit next to him Porthos. If he does wake up, he may need his friends near."

Porthos did as instructed. Athos watched the scene unfold with unease and desperation from where he had seated himself at d'Artagnan's side.

Carefully, Fabien uncapped the vial and held it beneath Aramis' nose. At first there was no response. No movement or reaction. And then Aramis blinked rapidly and pulled back sharply. Porthos grabbed his friend's arm, and Etienne took the other side as Aramis rocked back.

"Aramis?" Porthos called to his friend. "Aramis, it's Porthos. It's alright. You're okay."

Aramis didn't seem to hear. He started shaking as he wildly searched the room. His eyes rested on d'Artagnan's still body and Aramis froze completely as he took in the scene before his eyes drifted to his hands which were still covered in d'Artagnan's blood.

"No," he muttered. "No, no, no, no. No, no…"

"Aramis?!" Porthos tried to interrupt the litany that had erupted from his friend. "Please! Aramis!"

Fabien by now had arisen from his seat and returned with another vial.

"Hold him," the doctor ordered. With the medic stilled in the hands of his friends, Fabien forced the liquid down Aramis' throat, and they all watched as the Spaniard's eyelids' drooped and his head dropped heavily.

"What did you do?" Porthos asked, almost accusingly.

"I sedated him," Fabien said calmly. "He was in distress, and you weren't getting through to him. What I've just given him will help him sleep, calm his nerves, and hopefully make him more pliable when he awakes."

Porthos looked at the doctor doubtfully.

"Will you stay a while Doctor?" Treville interrupted. "Perhaps take a drink in my office with me?"

"Of course," Fabien agreed. "And I'll come by twice a day, or even more often if needed."

The doctor stood and rested his hand on Porthos' shoulder.

"I don't know what your friend saw, but he's had a terrible shock," Fabien said. "The rest will do him good, but beyond that it will take kindness and patience to bring him back. I'm afraid this isn't an illness a Doctor like myself can fix. I have no medicines for this."

Porthos looked at Fabien, and seeing only kindness and honesty in his face, accepted the man's words and nodded his thanks for them.

"I'll only be a call away," Fabien told the musketeers in the room. "Send someone if an issue arises."

Treville and Fabien left, and after Etienne helped Porthos lie Aramis down, he too took his leave, with Henri in tow.

As evening drew in two men lay incognizant in their beds, with their brothers by their sides.


	7. Chapter 7

**AN/ A bit of a short one... but answers will start coming through soon.**

Disclaimer: I do not own the BBC's The Musketeers.

* * *

The fever burned bright and fierce throughout the night.

Athos sat beside his brother feeling helpless as the lad's body burnt up from the inside out. His breathing came out in short wheezing gasps, and sweat glistened on his forehead and soaked through his sheets. Porthos and Athos had long ago pulled the sheet away from d'Artagnan so as to let the cool air get to his furnace of a body.

Desperately, Athos tried wiping him down with cool cloths, but the act seemed to have no effect, and d'Artagnan moved restlessly in his plagued sleep. Occasionally, Athos had thought his younger brother was awakening but was greeted with eyelids that only fluttered half-mast, showing the whites of d'Artagnan's eyes, before drifting back closed.

While d'Artagnan slept in turmoil, noisily gasping for breath and shifting his body restlessly and chaotically, Aramis slept like the dead.

Porthos was sharing his time between helping Athos care for d'Artagnan, and sitting beside the still and silent Aramis.

As yet, neither knew what had gone on. They knew not what had befallen either of their friends, and while they feared for d'Artagnan's life, their worry for Aramis, for the unknown attached to his curious condition, ate away at them slowly.

Porthos was sitting with Aramis as the first light of dawn started to break through the infirmary windows. He was watching the sun lift in the sky when he suddenly became aware of the silence in the room. It gave him pause because the last few hours had been permeated by d'Artagnan's frenetic movement and harsh breathing.

The implication of this silence struck him, and Porthos bolted from his chair. Besides d'Artagnan, Athos had fallen asleep; the older man's head had dropped to his chest, and his legs were stretched outwards. In the stripped down bed, d'Artagnan lay completely still.

"D'Artagnan?" Porthos voiced his concern. The sound of Porthos' rumbling voice startled Athos awake, and he, too, was immediately leaning over his younger brother.

"D'Artagnan?" Athos called to the boy worriedly.

The body was still covered in a sheen of sweat, and Porthos feared, for one dreadful, terrible moment, that the d'Artagnan had left them. However, a whistling keening breath was released through gritted teeth and Porthos sighed with relief before turning his gaze to check the Gascon over. Athos rested his hand on the lad's forehead.

"I think his fever's broken," Athos commented, the relief in his voice plainly evident.

Porthos nodded as he checked the bandages wrapped around d'Artagnan's chest, and then moved to look up, only to find the dark orbs of his younger brother gazing back at him. They were watering and filled with pain and the bright vestiges of the fever.

"Hello brother," Porthos said softly.

Athos startled on the other side of the bed and also turned to find d'Artagnan's feverish look.

"'Mis?" d'Artagnan breathed out on a sigh.

"He's here," Porthos reassured his brother. "He sleepin'."

D'Artagnan's eyes clouded and he looked as if he were going to drift back off to sleep only to gasp and wheeze as the pain seemed to take hold.

"Hush," Athos soothed. "We've got you."

Athos gently ran his calloused hand through the lad's hair before retrieving the pain draft that Fabien had left them. He carefully coaxed it down d'Artagnan's throat and the two men watched as their brother's body visibly relaxed under the thrall of the medicine.

Athos glanced at Porthos and they shared a brief smile before d'Artagnan's drowsy and rasping voice filtered up to them.

"'Mis' gun…"

"What was that whelp?" Porthos asked the boy inquisitively.

"Ch… t' gun," he whispered breathlessly before finally succumbing to the effects of the draft.

Now Porthos looked at Athos inquisitively.

Athos shrugged, and checked d'Artagnan's breathing carefully before leaving the bedside. He crossed the room and went to check Aramis' belongings, eventually locating his pistol.

Athos pulled it free and lifted it to examine it more closely.

He checked the charge and smelt it.

"It's been fired recently," Athos said.

Porthos walked over the join him.

"So they were attacked?" Porthos asked. "Or Aramis was attacked earlier, and d'Artagnan came across him, and they were attacked again… It makes no sense. There's not a mark on Aramis, and if he had the mind to fire his weapon at an attacker, then that doesn't explain how he ended up like…" Porthos faded off, gesturing in Aramis' direction vaguely and in frustration.

"Aramis was being pursued," Athos reasoned. "Perhaps both the pursuer and d'Artagnan caught him up at the same time."

"But if Aramis fired a shot, then where was the body?" Porthos asked.

"That is a question we will have to wait for," Athos sighed. "Or perhaps we could go hunting?"

"Find the pursuer?" Porthos asked.

"You should stay with Aramis, but I want answers, and now that d'Artagnan is out of the woods, I'm ready to go and find them."

"Take Etienne with you," Porthos said. "You need someone to watch your back if I can't be there."

"I'll be careful," Athos said. "Watch over them while I'm away. Hopefully we'll get answers soon."

"Be careful brother."

"You know me," Athos shrugged, he glanced towards both his bedridden brothers with concern and love in his eyes before assuming a stony expression and leaving the infirmary.

Porthos watched him go and went to wipe the sweat from d'Artagnan's brow before sitting beside Aramis' still form.

"What happened out there?" he asked the empty space.


	8. Chapter 8

**AN/ Someone left a kind review warning that taking too long to get to the point can be frustrating, so apologies if that's been the feeling for some of you. I wanted to write a story that had a bit of mystery to it, as well as the typical h/c to it, but may have misjudged the pacing a little. The story's already written so there's not much more I can do now I'm afraid, but we are now starting to get answers, and the pace should pick up momentum now... Also, lots of angst for Aramis is next few chapters so hold on tight.**

Disclaimer: I do not own the BBC's The Musketeers.

* * *

Athos started where they'd left off… at the scene where he and Porthos had first found their injured and distraught brother.

Etienne had blanched at the pool of blood that still stained the grass and bark, and looked to Athos with an expression of sympathy for their injured brother in arms, before heading up the trail a little.

Athos had begun to carefully examine the space by the tree, where they had found d'Artagnan leaning when he heard Etienne give a sharp whistle. Athos turned his head towards the sound and headed a little further up the trail to find Etienne standing in the middle of the path with Aramis' hat in his hands.

"Blood trail," Etienne nodded at the ground. Athos looked down at his feet and realised what Porthos and he had missed the day before. The blood was dark against the grassy path and showed the direction d'Artagnan must have taken.

"D'Artagnan was shot here, and then moved to where we found him," realised Athos. He searched the area from where he stood, and then moved towards the edges of the path.

"Aramis' weapon had been fired," Athos explained. "Perhaps the man who shot d'Artagnan was also caught by Aramis' bullet."

Etienne realised the significance of Athos' comment and moved to search the other side of the path for a body or any sign of blood. He found the blood patch and spatter against the pale birch at the path's edge, and saw the ball embedded in the tree. He pried the bullet out with his knife and inspected it, before checking the blood on the ground once more.

Realisation dawned all too quickly, and Etienne choked on Athos' name as he called for the other musketeer.

"You find a trail?" Athos asked as he came over.

"This is Aramis' bullet, isn't it?" Etienne asked for clarification. "The copper base under the lead shell is of his own design is it not?"

Athos inspected the ball that Etienne handed him and saw the crumpled mass for what it was.

"Yes, this is Aramis'," he confirmed.

"Athos," Etienne implored, now quite pale. "I think I understand Aramis' predicament."

"What do you mean?" Athos asked as he followed the blood trail left by the bullet, and then he, too, realised the truth, and found himself swaying on his feet, as if drunk as he comprehended what Etienne had come to discover.

"That makes no sense," Athos said, shaking his head, as if to purge the images that showed the evidence. "Why would… he wouldn't…"

"We know he _wouldn't_ , but Athos, you can't deny what your own eyes tell you!" Etienne exclaimed. "The blood trail, that's d'Artagnan. Aramis' ball is what did the damage to him."

"Perhaps… perhaps Aramis did not shoot the weapon," Athos mused, trying to find some explanation to the madness set out before him.

"We know that is not true," Etienne sighed. "Aramis' state tells us the truth. He's…"

"He would not shoot d'Artagnan willingly," Athos turned on Etienne angrily.

"Athos, calm yourself," Etienne held up his hands, the sharpshooter's hat still in his grip. "I know he would not shoot any brother of his intentionally, but we know that this has happened, and now Aramis is spiralling because of it. We need to figure out _why_ it happened."

Athos looked at Etienne, who looked on at the elder musketeer imploringly.

"They are both our brothers," Etienne said softly. "I do not believe that either has forsaken the other, or deliberately meant harm toward the other. I believe that the only one who shall be blaming Aramis is himself, in fact, that is probably what he is already doing. We need to go back, so we can get more answers, and be there for them both."

Athos looked back at the bloodstain, and then to Aramis' hat, still in Etienne's hand.

"Let's go back," Athos agreed, and turned to stride off back towards the garrison. Etienne wordlessly handed Athos back the hat, and in Athos' other hand was clenched the spent and bloody ball from Aramis' pistol.

As they meandered back through the Paris streets, Athos paused for a moment.

"Athos?" Etienne called to his brother.

"Not a word of this," Athos said. "Not a word can be said to anyone, until we get to the bottom of things."

"Agreed," Etienne replied almost immediately, and then turned to set back off. As they continued on their way, Athos realised just how much he appreciated Etienne's friendship, and how much the man had done for the Inseparables, and especially Aramis, over the years. Of the musketeers outside of their inner circle, he'd been one of the first to welcome d'Artagnan into the fold.

"You're a good man, Etienne," Athos said. "And a good friend."

"We're brothers," Etienne said. "That's how it works."

Athos agreed, for brothers they were. But he did not yet know how the events of the previous day, and the truth that he had just discovered would affect their family.

/\/\/\/\/\

Athos had been gone for a considerable part of the afternoon when d'Artagnan next opened his eyes.

"Hey whelp," Porthos greeted the bleary gaze that looked up at him from the bed. "How are you feeling?"

"Thi'ty," d'Artagnan wheezed. Porthos winced in sympathy and reached for the water at the side of the bed. Helping d'Artagnan to sit in the bed a little, he held the cup in front of d'Artagnan and coaxed him to drink.

"Th'nks," d'Artagnan said quietly as Porthos replaced the cup. The lad was still too pale and was shaking a little, but he appeared more cognizant than he had when he'd awoken earlier. He was clearly still in pain though and Porthos reached for the pain draught as d'Artagnan curled in on himself a little.

"Hold on whelp," Porthos reassured him.

"Want to say up," d'Artagnan said insistently.

"D'Artagnan, you're in—'

A groan emanated from the other side of the bed and interrupted Porthos' stern telling off. Porthos paused in his ministrations and caught d'Artagnan's mischievous look as the Gascon watched Porthos struggle to decide who needed him more. Even before Porthos could say anything, d'Artagnan knew he had won.

"We are not done," Porthos told the stubborn Gascon. "I'll be right back."

D'Artagnan merely grinned back, though the laughter in his eyes was slightly clouded by the unshed tears of his painful breathing.

Porthos crossed the room swiftly and settled a hand on Aramis' arm.

"Aramis?" Porthos called to him. "Aramis, wake up."

His friend was clearly in the thrall of some nightmare or other, and Porthos found himself flashing back to Savoy.

"Aramis!" he called more firmly, shaking the other man.

Aramis startled awake and practically shot up in the bed. Porthos stepped back hastily to avoid the flailing limbs.

"Aramis, you're home," Porthos called to his friend, who was looking around the room with frightened eyes. "Aramis you're…"

"D'Art…" Aramis whispered the Gascon's name so quietly that it was barely audible.

"I'm right here Aramis," d'Artagnan said as loudly as he poor lungs could manage. "I'm alright, I'm—'

But d'Artagnan didn't finish, because Aramis had turned to look at him and then bolted. He ran past Porthos, and as much as he tried, Porthos didn't quite catch him in time. Thankfully, Aramis had bolted away from the door of the infirmary. However, met with the wall, he'd sought the corner out and slumped down, now murmuring to himself as his eyes glazed over.

"Aramis?" Porthos tried to get his friend's attention, but as he stepped closer, his brother merely retracted further into himself. "Aramis?"


	9. Chapter 9

**AN/ Lots of angst... lots of brotherly love...**

Disclaimer: I do not own the BBC's The Musketeers

* * *

"Help me up," d'Artagnan asked of his friend.

"D'Art, I don't think that's a good idea," Porthos warned, trying to keep one eye on each of his injured friends.

"Porthos," d'Artagnan spoke through gritted teeth as he levered himself up onto his elbows, and remained there despite the blood that dropped away from his already pale face. "Get me up."

Porthos frowned at d'Artagnan, clearly unsure as to what to do, but seeing that d'Artagnan was not to be stopped, he crossed the room to him. Keeping one eye on the distraught and incommunicative Aramis at all times, Porthos helped to lever d'Artagnan out of bed. First, he helped pull the lad's legs to the ground, and second, pulled him up so he was partly standing.

The Gascon's skin was clammy under Porthos' touch, and still radiated the humid warmth of the fever that was still lingering at the very edges. The lad's breath caught in his throat and at that point Porthos was about to turf the body back into his bed, but d'Artagnan, detecting the movement, grunted in disdain, and planted his feet firmly beneath him.

It was clear that d'Artagnan couldn't yet bare his own weight, but he was determined to reach his troubled friend, and Porthos' desire to help Aramis finally outweighed his want for settling d'Artagnan back down. Besides, the stubborn Gascon would crawl over if Porthos did refuse to assist his journey across the room.

The two men slowly crossed the infirmary. Porthos held the Gascon upright and all but carried him as they travelled the short distance. In his arms, d'Artagnan's face was white as a sheet, and he had all but stopped breathing from a combination of the pain he was in and the sheer effort of moving at all. Were Doctor Fabien to enter the room at this particular moment, Porthos had no doubt that he would be crucified for what he was doing.

Finally, they reached their quarry, and Porthos made to settle d'Artagnan on the bed closest to the corner where Aramis had retreated. Instead, though, d'Artagnan reached down towards his friend, and practically pulled Porthos down to the floor with him.

The three of them were stuck in an odd kind of tableau for a moment. Aramis was huddled up in the corner, rocking slightly, with his eyes staring vacantly and his lips moving so quickly that Porthos couldn't catch what he was saying. And then d'Artagnan now sat only inches from the Spaniard, his legs sprawled out and his chest heaving as much as his injuries would allow. He was clearly in pain, and Porthos regretted the decision to move him as he had requested. For himself, Porthos was still standing, but was bent over, his hands still tangled with d'Artagnan's arms, and his legs serving as a backrest for the Gascon who had slumped in place.

The door opened behind them and Porthos turned to see Athos enter with an expression that he couldn't quite work out. Athos' gaze was immediately pulled towards the three men in the corner of the room, and walked towards them. When he saw Aramis huddled in the corner, and d'Artagnan slumped barely a few inches away from him, the elder musketeer almost instinctively reached for his sword, and had to deliberately stay his hand. Porthos caught the motion though, and now was looking at his brother with an expression of confusion and deep worry.

"You need to be in bed, d'Artagnan," Athos said. His words were stern, and there was an edge to them that hinted at the anger rumbling within… and of the fear he felt.

"You went to the woods?" d'Artagnan asked breathlessly. "You… you know."

The statement was clear enough.

Athos paused in his advance towards the group, because d'Artagnan's words held no fear or worry. No blame or upset. It was as if he had merely observed that breakfast had arrived at their table.

"D'Artagnan…"

"I need to speak to Aramis," d'Artagnan said.

"Look," Porthos interrupted. "I don't know what's gone on, but I think that maybe this is too soon. Aramis isn't listenin' and…"

Porthos trailed off as he realised that d'Artagnan wasn't listened, and that the lad, despite his injuries, had shuffled the last few steps towards his insensate friend.

"D'Artagnan!" Athos growled in warning, causing Porthos to look at his brother in question. Clearly Porthos was missing something… something that d'Artagnan knew. Something that Athos had discovered during his venture through the forest trail.

Porthos moved to speak, to question Athos, but never got the chance, because d'Artagnan then spoke.

"Aramis?" d'Artagnan called to his brother. "Aramis can you hear me?"

The mumbling didn't subside completely, but it did slow a little. D'Artagnan took this as a good sign and reached out, placing both his hands on Aramis' shoulders. The Spaniard didn't react at first, but slowly his fists lowered from where theu'd been clutched to his face and he appeared to look towards d'Artagnan. Comprehension appeared to dawn, and then his was pulling back into himself. He turned his head and hit it against the wall in a deliberate and sharp motion.

"No!" d'Artagnan yelled at his friend, half-worried, half-angry. "Stop it! Stop it, Aramis! You don't get to do this! This is not your fault. You hear me? This is not your fault."

Aramis shook his head, and tried to shake d'Artagnan off him, a movement that caused the Gascon to wince in pain. Athos lurched forward, but Porthos put an arm out to stop his advance.

"Aramis," d'Atagnan pleaded with his friend breathlessly. "You must listen to me. You didn't know. You didn't know it was me. You weren't… Aramis… Aramis, stop… please… Aramis… I forgive you, Aramis. I forgive you. I forgive you. Please forgive yourself. You need to… you need to stop letting this… it wasn't your fault… never your fault… Aramis…"

The litany went on for some time, and while he spoke, d'Artagnan carefully wrapped his arms around his brother. He lifted his hand and held the back of Aramis' head to protect it from further damage. He continued to whisper his reassurances, his love, to his brother, and he waited as until he finally felt Aramis fall still in his arms.

Behind him Porthos had begun to comprehend the meaning behind d'Artagnan's words and had put the pieces together. He looked at Athos, startled and fearful, and the elder musketeer had returned a heavy frown, nodding once in answer to Porthos' unspoken question.

Shocked and unsure of what to do next, Porthos returned to look down on his two brothers. D'Artagnan now had Aramis tightly embraced in his arms and was still speaking breathlessly to him as Aramis seemed to calm.

Porthos thought he heard a sound escape Aramis and then saw tears rolling down the medic's eyes as he sobbed near silently. D'Artagnan picked up on it too.

"It's alright Aramis," d'Artagnan said soothingly. "It wasn't your fault. I don't blame you. I love you brother. You understand me? I love you, and I trust you."

That was what undid Aramis.

The declaration of trust from his younger brother, who he had so grievously wounded, opened him up and he sobbed loudly and violently as he finally emerged from the sheltered walls that he had trapped himself within. He cried with abandon, and d'Artagnan held him tightly while Porthos and Athos looked on.

Finally, a tearful Porthos knelt down and pulled d'Artagnan way from Aramis.

"You need to get back into bed whelp," he said quietly.

"Aramis?" d'Artagnan queried after his friend, not wishing to abandon him.

"I'll stay with him," Porthos said. "But you need to return to bed."

D'Artagnan looked as if he wanted to protest, but he could feel his breathing becoming tighter and harsher, and knew he wouldn't be able to stay awake much longer. He turned back to Aramis and gripped him tightly.

"Porthos will stay with you know brother," d'Artagnan said softly ad reassuringly. "But I'll just be across the room from you."

He then scooted away and Porthos slid down next to his broken friend, reaching an arm around Aramis' shaking shoulders.

Athos reached for d'Artagnan, and tried to help him stand, but the lad was clearly at his last leg, and so his instead lifted him into his chest and carried him to the rumpled bed he had previously abandoned. He lowered the warm and sweat soaked body and d'Artagnan all but drifted off in his journey from Athos' arms to the sheets of the bed.

Athos smiled fondly at the lad and checked him over. Some blood had soaked through the bandages and d'Artagnan was covered in a sheen of sweat, so Athos gently washed him down with a cool cloth, and swapped out the bandages for new ones.

Once he was satisfied that d'Artagnan was looked after, he headed back towards the corner of the infirmary to find Porthos hunkered down beside Aramis, holding the man to his chest. Athos surveyed the pair for a short moment before settling down on Aramis' over side, tucking their brother between them.

As the night drew on and d'Artagnan slept soundly, Porthos and Athos held their brother and each spoke of their own trust and love and forgiveness. Eventually, Aramis fell asleep between them, exhausted and drained, and then Porthos carried him, too, to his bed. This time lying him directly beside d'Artagnan's bed.

Athos watched as Pothos settled Aramis amongst the sheets and then as the large musketeer turned to check that d'Artagnan was still doing okay. After checking on his brothers, Porthos looked towards Athos and gestured to the door: he needed to be filled in on Athos' findings.


	10. Chapter 10

**AN/ Much comfort in this scene :)**

 **Also, I huge thank you to everyone who has faved, followed, and reviewed so far. I've tried responding to most people, but sometimes drop the ball as I'm all over the place at the moment in terms of rl. So I just wanted to say how much I appreciate all of my readers.**

Disclaimer: I do not own BBC's The Musketeers.

* * *

When he next awoke, he was back in bed and the sunlight was filtering into the room.

Aramis lay still for all but a moment before shooting up into a sitting position. The blood rushed to his head and he flinched at the dry feeling in his parched mouth and at the emptiness in his stomach… an emptiness that felt entirely out of place in a body that felt so leaden.

He tried to focus but everything felt rather hazy, as if he was drunk. He closed his eyes and tried to put the jumbled thoughts back together inside his head.

"Aramis?" a soft voice called from near him.

Aramis jolted and looked to his side to find d'Artagnan lying prone. He was pale and obviously tired, but his eyes were clear, and despite his apparent discomfort, he seemed intent on checking over Aramis. Aramis looked over the Gascon. He noted the residual bowl and cloth on the bedside that served as a sign of there having been a fever, while the bandages wrapped around the lad's chest were all too clear to see.

Belatedly, Aramis realised they were in the infirmary. And as this realisation surfaced, he found himself moving towards his bedbound brother.

"What happened?" he asked d'Artagnan. "Are you okay?"

D'Artagnan startled by the questions and looked unsure as to how to answer.

"Aramis?" he asked his friend. "What do you remember?"

"I… I…" Aramis stopped momentarily to think, and realised he didn't know how he'd gotten here. At least…

When the memories finally resurfaced they hit him like a lightning bolt and his legs almost gave out from under him.

"Aramis!" d'Artagnan shouted towards him. He groaned as he unsuccessfully managed to sit up in his bed. "Aramis. We've been through this. This isn't your fault. Aramis—"

"The whelp's right," Porthos' booming voice intervened as both Athos and he entered the room with breakfast and quickly registered the scene before them. "Aramis—"

"I know… I remember… at least… I remember last night," Aramis said quietly, almost too quietly for the others to hear. "Was that last night?"

"It was," Porthos said. "You've slept the morning away, but now the two of you must eat."

Carefully, Porthos helped Aramis back onto his bed, and looked over the other man fearfully, worried that his friend might spiral back into that same catatonic state he'd been in when they first found him.

Slowly, Porthos cajoled Aramis to eat, while Athos helped d'Artagnan sit up in his bed, held up by a bunch of pillows, and then helped him with his food also.

After they finished eating, Aramis sat silently and watched the Gascon with wary eyes.

"I want to see the wound," Aramis said finally. He paused for a moment. "I'd better make sure Fabien didn't make a hash of his stitching." The joke fell flat, but no one stopped the medic in his quest to check on the d'Artagnan's injury.

As he peeled the bandages away and Aramis checked both the holes in the lad's chest and back, with d'Artagnan wincing intermittently, no one spoke. Finally, satisfied, Aramis rewrapped the chest and sat back on his bed.

"I'm a very good marksman," he tried to joke. But there no laughter in his voice, and his eyes were haunted.

"Clearly not good enough," d'Artagnan responded, with a lightness to his voice that Aramis found both startling and unnerving.

Athos and Porthos watched their two brothers, unsure as to what they should do next.

"Do you remember shooting me?" d'Artagnan suddenly asked. More than anything, he sounded curious, and he was looking directly at Aramis, not accusingly, but merely inquisitively.

Aramis looked flustered and opened his mouth only to shut it again. He was silent for another moment and then shook his head.

"Shall I tell you how it happened?" d'Artagnan asked. His tone was gentle, as if he was speaking to a small child. Normally Aramis would have been offended by this treatment, but he appreciated the tone now. Slowly the medic nodded and lifted his eyes to finally meet d'Artagnan's.

"We were trying to track you down. You didn't come back after the night out," d'Artagnan began to explain. "I went ahead and found you on the trail just beyond the city limit. You were walking rather aimlessly, and I called to you. You were startled by my shout and turned, with your weapon drawn. But the thing is, Aramis, you weren't there. Your eyes were all glassy, like you were in a drunken stupor. In fact, you moved as if you were drunk.

I called out to you again, I put my hands up to try and show you that I wasn't a threat, but I don't think you could even see me at that point. I took a step forward and that's when you fired."

Aramis flinched.

"I'm not going to lie, Aramis, it hurt, it still does, but there was something up with you. You didn't know you were firing at me. I don't think you even knew where you were."

"You moved away from me," Aramis said. "I followed the blood-trail…"

"You collapsed almost as soon as you shot me. You grunted like you were in pain. I think your head was hurting. After you fell down, I moved away a little. I didn't want you to wake back up and take another shot at me…" d'Artagnan barked a laugh that came out as a wheezing cough. "I figured I could tell the others what had happened when they caught up, but you found me first."

"I'd woken up…" Aramis said.

"Yes," d'Artagnan agreed. "You still looked a little drunk, but your eyes were clear… you knew who I was."

"D'Artagnan…"

"Do you see why I don't blame you, Aramis?" d'Artagnan interrupted. "You didn't know what you were doing. Whatever happened to you before I caught up with you… you didn't know. You didn't realise."

Aramis was looking intently now at d'Artagnan, with tears rolling down his face.

"Can you remember what happened before you joined the trail out of Paris?" Athos asked from the end of the bed.

Aramis shook his head.

"Sorry, no."

Athos dropped his head, but held back the sigh that was threatening to emerge.

"That's alright," Porthos said. "Now you're on the mend, you can keep an eye on d'Artagnan while we go figure it out."

"Porthos…"

"You're staying put," Porthos said firmly. "Look after the patient."

D'Artagnan, for his part, looked like he wanted to protest, but was stricken by a rash of coughing at that particular moment. Aramis jumped to tend him, and Porthos pulled Athos away, a smile playing on his lips.

"They'll look after each other," Porthos told Athos. "Now we've got answers to go in search of."

Athos looked behind to see Aramis sitting on the edge of d'Artagnan's bed, helping the Gascon drink from a cup, and knew that Porthos was right. Both their brothers were now out of the woods, and he and Porthos had work to do.

* * *

 **As you may be able to tell... the mystery is about to be solved, but there's still some more angst before we reach the end of our tale.**


	11. Chapter 11

**AN/ Lo and behold! The answers are below...**

Disclaimer: I do not own the BBC's The Musketeers.

* * *

Porthos was prowling. His shoulders were hunched, his whole body rigid, his face hard… he looked just about ready to spit fire. Athos wasn't in much more of a pleasant mood, but he looked slightly less likely to throw someone across the room.

The barman in the _Goose & Hare_ didn't much like the look of either of them as they approached him.

"What can I do for you?" he asked warily.

"You can talk," Porthos said. "Now. Tell us what the man looked like. The one you was going for our friend."

"I… it was a few days ago now. I'm not sure I can re—"

"Remember quickly," Porthos growled as he leaned in closer. Athos nearly took pity on the barkeep and briefly thought of interceding, but he wanted answers. Besides, the solid hunk of wood should keep Porthos off the man, in theory at least.

"He was…" the barkeeper glanced at Athos and, seeing no help there, seemed to come to a decision. "Look, I don't know who he is, but he comes by some evenings. He likes to gamble." The barkeeper gestured towards the back tables.

Porthos shared a look with Athos.

"We'll take a bottle," Porthos told the man, dropping the money on the bar top. The barman retrieved the bottle of red, and Porthos took it and the cups happily. "Make sure to point 'im out to us if he comes by."

The barkeeper nodded as the two musketeers settled down in a booth near the gambling tables.

"He may not come," Athos pointed out.

"Then we'll come again tomorrow."

Porthos all but ended the conversation then as he took a long draught of his drink. Athos watched him with a modicum of concern, but then realised that this was probably the best course of action, and so settled in for the wait.

As night drew in and the tavern filled up, the two of them stopped drinking, wishing to keep their minds sharp, and they watched as the patrons of the bar walked past, often drunk and raucous.

When the culprit did arrive, the barkeeper barely had to give a signal. Porthos recognised him instantly.

Roland sauntered past the table where Athos and Porthos sat with a cocky grin and an air of arrogance that made Athos' stomach turn. The musketeers glanced at one another and communicated silently their intentions before rising from their table.

The former red guard was just about seat himself when Porthos yanked him back by the shoulder. He pulled Roland around and shoved him towards the door. The musketeer's action caused something of a stir, but Athos intervened before anyone else could move.

"We're musketeers, here on the King's business," Athos called loudly, his voice leaving no room for doubt. "Please carry on about you're evening. We're leaving now."

As Athos reassured the patrons of the bar, Porthos had finished his journey through the room, and had pushed Roland back out into the night air.

The street outside was almost empty, and no one paid any mind to the three men as Porthos, his hand still curled into the cloth of Roland's jacket, shoved the former guardsman into the wall beside the tavern.

"Evening Porthos," Roland replied coyly. "Shouldn't you be looking after your wounded puppy? I hear Aramis took the shot. When is he sentenced to hang? I haven't heard news of the date yet."

Athos' eyebrows shot up. Despite his and Etienne's attempts to keep this quiet, the truth had clearly gotten out. Porthos practically growled, and looked ready to slit Roland's throat right there and then, but Athos stepped in.

"Aramis will not hang," Athos stated firmly. "After all, it would appear that you had more hand in this shooting than Aramis ever did."

"And where's your evidence of that?" Roland retorted confidently.

"You have a reason to want revenge on Aramis," Athos pointed out.

"I lost my rank because of him," Roland said angrily.

"Actually, your actions of misconduct lost you your rank," Athos said dryly. "It's just that Aramis caught you."

"And reported me," Roland spat. "Whatever happened to loyalty amongst soldiers."

"You have never given us any cause to be loyal to you," Porthos growled harshly.

Roland looked about ready to throw a slur in Porthos' direction, but Athos once again stepped in.

"Tell us what happened, and I might see that you don't pay with your life," Athos said.

"And live the rest of my life out in the Chatelet? No thank you!"

"Death it is then," Porthos said, grinning devilishly.

Porthos released Roland from where he'd been pinned to the wall and pulled his sword. Roland instinctively reached for his own, but realised he had none.

"That's not a fair fight!" Roland responded.

"Shame," Athos intoned unsympathetically, stepping out of the way of the two men, while Porthos prepared to advance.

"You can't do this," Roland shouted angrily. "This is murder!"

"What did you do to Aramis?" Porthos asked as he got closer.

"You'll get done for this!" Roland yelled.

Porthos merely grinned and whipped his sword to the left, taking a slice out of the former red guard.

Roland yelped and took a step back.

"Please!"

But Porthos merely advanced again. All playfulness gone, he was going to make Roland pay for what the man had done to his friends.

"Please!" Roland shouted again. "Seriously. Stop. Okay… okay, I'll tell you!"

Porthos nearly delivered the blow, but stopped himself at the last second.

Roland was now on his knees and he peered up at the two looming musketeers.

"We're waiting," Athos said sharply.

Roland winced at the tone.

"I got the powder from the apothecary," Roland said. "The man said it would cause amnesia and confusion. I followed Aramis and forced him to inhale it. I threw it at him. I figured it was only a matter of time before he fell in the canal or got trampled by a horse."

Porthos growled as the former red guard spoke.

"But it was better than that," Roland suddenly sneered. "He nearly killed the pup instead. The guilt will eat him raw. He'll suffer longer."

Porthos started to lunge forward, but Athos beat him to it, clubbing the kneeling culprit over the head with the barrel of his pistol. Roland slumped on the ground heavily.

Porthos looked like he might still act, but eventually turned away and kicked out at the air in pure fury. Athos watched him warily, until Porthos finally settled enough to face the monster that had done harm to his friends.

"To the Chatalet?" Athos asked.

"Aye," Porthos said with a sigh.

Between the two of them, they heaved the unconscious body up and dragged him through the streets of Paris, depositing him at the Paris cells.

They made their walk back to the garrison in silence, until finally Porthos spoke.

"He's right," he said. "Aramis will never forgive himself."

Athos sighed.

"He will eventually," Athos said finally.

"And how's that?"

"Because d'Artagnan is a stubborn fool," Athos replied with a fond smile.

* * *

 **Hope the truth of the mystery didn't disappoint. Congratulations to everyone that guessed correctly in your reviews.**

 **We have two chapter left now... time for our brothers to recover, don't you think?**


	12. Chapter 12

**AN/ One more chapter to go after this. Hope you enjoy!**

Disclaimer: I do not own the BBC's The Musketeers

* * *

In the end, knowing didn't really help… _knowing_ it wasn't your fault, and _believing_ it wasn't your fault were two completely different things.

Aramis had told himself over and over again that he was blameless, that he'd been drugged, that he hadn't known what he was doing (he didn't even remember doing it), and yet the guilt continued to eat at him.

It was a feeling he was all too familiar with. After Savoy, he had felt the guilt for a long time… it still reared its ugly head occasionally, but time had done its work and he had finally, slowly, been able to put that trauma and his ill-feelings to rest.

This time, it wasn't so easy. This time, the result of his actions was staring him in the face… actually staring at him… d'Artagnan was there every time Aramis turned around, watching him… or, at least, he seemed to be.

At first he'd been able to lie to himself, and to his brother, about his true feelings, but they were starting to show through; he wasn't fooling himself, and he doubted he was fooling the others either.

It had been easier at first; d'Artagnan had spent a long time in the infirmary, and then in his own bed, recovering from his injury, and Aramis didn't have to face the guilt all hours of the day, and could hide after visits to the Gascon's room while he let out his anguish. But eventually d'Artagnan had recovered enough to start moving of his own volition, albeit slowly, and he had started to venture into the garrison courtyard while the others were training.

It didn't take him long to pick up his sword once more.

Athos had gone easy on him at first. D'Artagnan could walk through the steps easily enough, but he lacked the energy or strength to move quickly, or to block a blow, even one at half Athos' normal strength.

Aramis would watch anxiously, terrified that the young man would keel over, and the more he saw him, and the more he realised how far d'Artagnan had left to go before he recovered, the more it ate at him… the guilt.

He'd done that… he'd taken the spring out of his step, the fire out of his sword arm, the fierceness welling up from his lungs…

It was now months later and d'Artagnan and Athos were sparring once more in the practice yard. They were almost back up to their normal speed, though Aramis noted Athos hold back on a few opportunities to take the "kill." This kind of behaviour would normally have annoyed the fiery Gascon, but d'Artagnan was so happy to be back in action that he made no complaint.

At the end of the fight, the ring of recruits gathered around dispersed as Athos pushed d'Artagnan towards the table that Aramis was sitting at. The lad walked across, his chest heaving, and downed the cup of water on the side. Aramis tried not to flinch at the raspy sound that was stuck in the Gascon's throat. Even after all this time and exercise, d'Artagnan's breathing still hadn't quite righted itself, although no one had said it aloud.

After he had recovered his senses, Aramis had asked Fabien for details for what had happened to d'Artagnan, and he knew that, with the kind of operation and damage done to the lad's lungs, that he would probably never fully recuperate his breathing to what it had been. When told as much, d'Artagnan, at that time still stuck in bed, had merely joked that he wouldn't be able to sit underwater for nearly so long as he used to, but seemed far less fazed at that than by the fact that he'd just been told he would have to stay in bed another week.

Aramis didn't just feel guilty… he was worried. He'd irreparably damaged his brother.

In his musing he forgot that d'Artagnan was still standing beside him, and almost jumped when the man moved a little in the corner of his eye.

"Let's go riding," d'Artagnan said suddenly.

"What?" Aramis looked surprised.

"Let's go riding," d'Artagnan repeated. "I feel like going out for a while. Will you come?"

Aramis wanted to say no, but the expression on d'Artagnan's face told him that the stubborn whelp wouldn't take no for an answer.

"Alright then," Aramis agreed, and stood, following d'Artagnan to the stables.

They saddled up and set out, with d'Artagnan setting the pace. Neither man spoke and after a while Aramis stopped noticing his surroundings and just settled into his saddle and enjoyed the feeling of the wind running through his hair. When riding like this, with the sun on his face, he found it easy to forget his worries.

He noticed d'Artagnan slowing down in front of him, and followed suit, only then realising where he was.

His horse sensed his discomfort and jittered anxiously beneath him.

"What do you think you're doing?" Aramis ground out, feeling anger towards his friend.

"Finally," d'Artagnan grinned as if pleased. "I was worried you'd lost all other emotions besides guilt."

"D'Artagnan…"

"You won't talk about it, when you clearly need to, so I thought I'd force your hand."

"D'Artagnan, this isn't like Savoy–"

"You're right, it's not," d'Artagnan agreed. "Thing is, you only let Savoy get to you when we get near the region, or if the cold sets in. It doesn't happen very often. But I'm around all the time Aramis, and I'm sorry, but I like your company, so we need to figure out a way to stop this guilt from eating you up. It'd be nice if you looked at me with a smile instead of regret all the time."

"That's not fair, d'Artagnan," Aramis protested. "You have no idea how I feel. What I did—"

"You shot me, and it hurt, but you weren't even aware that you were doing it!" d'Artagnan was all but yelling. "You didn't know that it was me you were shooting. You had no idea you were shooting anyone. You need to stop blaming yourself!"

D'Artagnan ended his angry tirade with a fit of coughing that made Aramis flinch and turn away.

"You're breathing is wrecked," Aramis said softly. "My bullet. My gun. My shot. And with it I stole your breathing."

D'Artagnan took a moment to recover.

"I can breathe well enough to do my job, to guard yours and my own back," d'Artagnan argued back. "You did not ruin my life, or my career with your shot. You didn't ruin our friendship with it either, though your guilt is sure as hell trying!"

"D'Artagnan!"

"No, dammit Aramis! I'm sick of your self-pity. You did not choose to hurt me, you never would, and no one, absolutely no one, is blaming you but yourself!" d'Artagnan shouted. "And I understand, I really did at first, but it's gone on too long. I thought with time you'd come to forgive yourself, but you've just gotten worse…"

"I'm sorry d'Artagnan…"

"For shooting me or for letting the guilt rule your life?"

Aramis halted at the question presented before him, and did not know how to respond. Instead he dug his heels in to his horse's flank and turned his mount, starting to pick up pace.

He thought d'Artagnan might take chase, but he didn't.


	13. Chapter 13

**AN/ And here's the finale! Thank you to everyone who has stayed through to the end, who has reviewed, and followed, and faved. Thank you all for reading. You guys are awesome, and I hope you enjoy the last chapter. I know I enjoyed writing it.**

 **(tw - suicidal thought)**

Disclaimer: I do not own the BBC's The Musketeers

* * *

Aramis felt breathless by the time he cleared the woods. He wasn't sure how long he'd been riding, but he noticed that the sun was beginning to dip in the sky, and so he slowed down to a slow walk, finally taking in his surroundings.

He was in the open, passing through a series of fields, and very clearly in farmer's territory. He jumped off his horse and led it by the reins in search of some water. When he was finally successful in his search he settled down beside the stream, and leant back on the grass.

He hadn't let himself think as he'd rode, but now all he could hear was d'Artagnan's voice echoing inside his head.

 _"_ _I'm sorry d'Artagnan…"_

 _"_ _For shooting me or for letting the guilt rule your life?"_

"Both really," he said aloud. There was no one around to hear him.

He sighed and shoved his hands through his windswept hair in frustration. He hadn't wanted to let it get this far. After Porthos and Athos had filled in the last of the blanks, he'd promised himself he wouldn't let the guilt eat him up… told himself repeatedly that it wasn't his fault. But he couldn't get past the idea of it. Every time d'Artagnan winced, or wheezed or coughed, he was reminded of what his bullet, _his shot_ had done. He'd nearly killed one of his closest friends.

He'd shot his brother.

"Arghh!" he yelled aimlessly out into the evening air. His horse dipped his head up from where it was bent over the stream, but didn't react in any other way.

Aramis stood up and pulled his pistol out of its holster and turned it over in his hands, feeling its weight and shape, and tracing his fingers over the engraving on the handle. He looked at it and then stopped short.

"You idiot," he chastised. He'd only thought it for a second… only a moment. Maybe the thought had been lingering in the back of his head for a while, but the moment it solidified he realised what a mistake it was.

He re-holstered his weapon, sat down on the grassy bank, and then cried.

His horse came up to him and nudged him gently.

"I'm such an idiot," he whispered to his mount. "I can't think this way. I can't… If I'd done it they'd have never… they'd have blamed themselves… and they shouldn't… because they didn't do it… they didn't know… just like I didn't."

He cried himself dry and then shook himself before standing, resting a hand on his horse.

"Alright," he sighed. "It's time to go home."

/\/\/\/\/\

Somehow, the night had gotten away with him, and he'd travelled further than he thought. Instead of slogging it all the way home, he found a farm and settled on the hay in the stables. In the morning a young boy, the farmer's son, came in with some boiled eggs for him,

"I have no money," Aramis tried to explain.

The boy didn't speak, but merely held the eggs out for him. Waiting.

"Thank you," Aramis smiled at the child and took the food. The shells were still warm, and he ate as he rode the rest of the way home.

As he negotiated the Paris roads he realised, a little belatedly, that he would have missed morning muster. Not that he was particularly worried about that. He trotted into the garrison, and quickly dismounted to see d'Artagnan's clearly relieved face watching him from the foot of the stairs to Treville's office. Again, belatedly, Aramis realised that the last time his brother had seen him he'd been running away, distraught.

"D'Artagnan," he greeted his friend hesitantly.

"Are you okay?" d'Artagnan interjected. "I crossed a line yesterday Aramis. I shouldn't have taken you there. I'm sor—"

"No," Aramis shook his head, catching Athos' and Porthos' eye. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I shot you. I'm also sorry that all I've done these last few weeks is mope. I had your forgiveness, but I had to forgive myself."

"And have you?" d'Artagnan asked.

"Almost," Aramis replied, almost coyly.

D'Artagnan rolled his eyes, but accepted the answer.

"Aramis!" Treville shouted from upstairs. "My office!"

"Back to the usual course I think," Aramis said in a genuine, upbeat tone and he bounced up the stairs. D'Artagnan watched him go, and then nearly laughed out loud when he heard Aramis address Treville.

"Apologies for my lateness, Captain."


End file.
